The Moonlight Mistress (15 page)

Crispin actually slept through the next half hour, missing it when the noise stopped. He only woke when, impossibly, Ashby’s voice called out Meyer’s name, then Crispin’s, and he bounded blithely down into the shell hole as if he were on a country ramble. It wasn’t so dark Crispin couldn’t see the look that passed between the other two men. Ashby knew, or guessed, what had happened between them, but wasn’t going to speak of it. And Meyer, it seemed, wasn’t going to speak of it even to Crispin.

He knew this game well, and hated it with every ounce of his being. If he’d had the slightest excuse he would have picked a fight with Ashby, just to vent his rage at the other man’s untimely interference. If Ashby hadn’t come along, he and Meyer might be talking right now, in the dark, under the stars and the distant light of occasional shells. For once, he might have been able to have a conversation with a man
after
he’d had his tongue in his mouth. But no. Ashby had decided to come along and rescue them, and then look innocently ignorant of any criminal activity while gently binding up Crispin’s ankle. Crispin felt a creeping jealousy to realize that Ashby probably only realized what had happened because he was so close to Meyer. And he cared for him enough to protect him.

Crispin had to accept Ashby’s support as he limped back to the company; Meyer trailed behind, carrying the rifle Ashby had brought. Crispin didn’t speak. After an attempt or two at conversation, Ashby gave up, and led them back through a pocked hell of splintered trees to a newish trench, never once stumbling—and saving Meyer from skidding into
a nasty puddle that contained half of a corpse. Once Crispin was ensconced on a crate of canned peaches, with Joyce looking after his ankle and the new company terrier solicitously licking his hand, Meyer spoke to Ashby and then scrambled out of the trench, presumably to look for more of the men. It was a great pity, Crispin reflected, that he hadn’t fallen for Ashby instead. At least Ashby might not have pretended nothing had happened.

Hailey skidded to his knees, sheltering behind a shattered cottage wall while a few Minnies winged overhead. This hamlet reminded him of the ones they’d seen on their way into France, full of cheering people who gave them cigarettes and flowers and loaves of bread. Now it was devastated, all the people gone, gardens trampled, animal corpses bloating in the streets, houses and churches shot to pieces by the guns. His company and several others, their numbers sadly reduced in the last couple of weeks, had been fortifying the place as best they could and taking potshots at the Germans who were holed up on the banks of the river Marne. But after today’s bombardment, it was strategic retirement once again.

Lieutenant Smith was missing. Hailey had to find him and pass on Captain Ashby’s orders; if it were Daglish missing, he would be smart enough to come in on his own, but Smith was more likely to hare off so he could bag another souvenir of the enemy. Pittfield was with Smith, or had been earlier, and he was a canny sort, so maybe it would be all right, but unlike everyone else, Smith didn’t always listen to Pittfield. And there was Lincoln to consider; no one had found Lincoln yet when Hailey had set out.

Because he was terrible at cards, Lincoln owed Hailey a
guinea sixpence, enough for a new overcoat. Hailey was damned if he would allow that debt to go unpaid, with winter coming on and no sign of going home anytime soon. He hoped Lincoln was with Smith and Pittfield, because he didn’t relish staying out much longer. It was already dusk, and the idea of tramping across broken ground in the dark alone sent chills right down to his feet.

The Minnies died off and, cautiously, Hailey quartered the village, peering into any sheltered spot just in case anyone lay there wounded. He didn’t fear finding the enemy, at least not yet. They wouldn’t be stupid enough to march forward under their own guns. He found one dead man, a Frenchman in red trousers, now stained brown with dried blood. He took a few moments to extract the man’s identity papers, or what looked like them, and stack some fallen bricks over the top half of the body. He didn’t have the courage to look at the man’s face. He didn’t want to see it in his memory as it disappeared under rubble, brick by brick.

A rattle like a sewing machine split the air and Hailey dropped onto the remains of someone’s kitchen garden before he realized the sound hadn’t been that loud, just confusing in the way it had bounced off walls and rubble. The machine gun had to be down the road, and probably belonged to the enemy, and they had to be shooting at someone. Possibly Lincoln, who owed him a guinea sixpence, or maybe even sevenpence. Lincoln would have stuck to Pittfield like glue if he’d found him, and Pittfield wouldn’t have abandoned Smith to blunder around on his own. Hailey took a couple of good deep breaths and dropped into the ditch running alongside the road. He’d have a look.

A rifle popped, then another and another. Hailey lay in the
ditch. He heard shouting in English and equipment clanking before there were more shots, then a motor groaning, the familiar protests of a lorry stuck in the mud. Were the enemy shooting at the lorry?

The shouting sounded ordinary now, not battle yelling. Cautiously, Hailey scrambled out of the ditch. He’d barely taken a single step when a bee whined past, then another, and he half spun round, his arm going numb. “Bugger,” he gasped, staggered and fell to his knees.

Noel felt a bit like a sheepdog as the men of the company trickled in. Daglish was eyeing him worriedly, so Noel gave him a bright smile and a clap on the shoulder, then paced up and down in the guise of keeping an eye out. He was practically jumping out of his skin with the desire to search out more of his men, circle them and shepherd them back to safety, especially the younger ones, especially Hailey, who was running around without even a rifle for protection. Not that this trench was entirely safe; a single shell could wipe them all out. But Noel couldn’t do anything about that.

The company terrier barked at him and rolled onto his back. Noel crouched and caressed the animal’s wiry coat, his every sense alert for the sound of approaching footsteps.

He managed not to show any reaction when Gabriel arrived, leading Lyton, Mason, Southey and Woods. Woods’s arm was bound up close to his chest, but wasn’t bleeding any longer. Noel sent Joyce to have a look at the wound and took Gabriel aside. “Any sign of Smith? Or Hailey?”

Gabriel shook his head. “No one’s seen Hailey. I’m a bit worried. He knows where to meet us?”

“He was carrying the word.”

Pittfield arrived next, using his Enfield as a makeshift crutch, and bearing ill news. “Smith’s dead,” he said, not wasting time softening the blow. “Hailey went after him, couldn’t manage it, he’s such a little thing. Took a bullet in the shoulder.”

“Where is he?” Noel demanded, suddenly short of breath. “And why aren’t you with him?”

“Stretcher bearer helped him. He was on his way to a truck. Lincoln is wounded, too, and went with him. I’m not hurt so bad—”

“The fucking hell you’re not, that’s why you’re abusing your weapon. Get that leg taken care of.” Pittfield stared at him.

“I can bloody well curse if I want to,” Noel growled. “Joyce! Come and help Pittfield.” He turned to Gabriel. “You’re in charge. I’ll be back.”

Gabriel stared at him.

“I’ve got to go after Hailey.”

Gabriel stared some more. Daglish had caught some hint, and was looking in their direction.

Noel touched Gabriel’s arm. “Go and tell Daglish about Smith. I’ll be back before morning.”

“If you get yourself killed on some idiotic stunt, I will fucking kill you a second time,” Gabriel said.

“Hailey needs me,” Noel said. He grasped Gabriel’s shoulder and gave him a little shake. “This is important.”

Gabriel sighed. “That boy is more competent than a lot of the older men. He’ll manage a ride to hospital on his own.”

“I have to make sure.”

Gabriel sighed. “Fine. But you’d better be back before I have to explain your absence.”

“Done.” Noel winked and grinned, then turned and sprinted off. He had to find Hailey, and quickly.

“SISTER, IT REALLY IS RATHER URGENT THAT I find Hailey.”

Lucilla barely glanced at the officer, who was filthy but unwounded. “I’m busy, Captain. Perhaps one of the porters can help you.” She checked beneath a bandage, sniffing discreetly, then patted the man’s shoulder. “You’ll do.” She moved to the next in line.

“He’s not very large. Brown hair, brown eyes.”

She ignored this. Unless Matron told her otherwise, she refused to ignore new patients in favor of a single officer with a ridiculous request. He could easily find someone else to help him. That was the purpose of porters and orderlies and VADs—Voluntary Aid Detachments—to handle simple tasks so she could get on with nursing.

“I’ll wait,” said the voice behind her. “Hailey’s wounded, you see. He’s my batman.”

“This is the right place for him, then. Someone will see to him,” Lucilla said absently as she scribbled a note and tucked
it into the next soldier’s tunic pocket, reassuring him when he looked alarmed.

Ten minutes later, she’d forgotten about the captain. The current batch of VADs was efficient in cleaning the men up and, with the help of orderlies, getting them into beds, but there simply weren’t enough of them, leaving more work for the nurses. Lucilla took charge of the abdominal wounds. When a khaki-clad soldier appeared at her shoulder to hold basins, she was able to move more quickly, and finished before midnight.

She closed her eyes and stretched, careful not to touch her uniform with her dirty hands. At last she could apply some lanolin to her cracked skin.

“Sister, I hate to bother you, but—”

Lucilla turned and stared. “You’re still here?” she asked. Her helper was the captain from earlier in the evening, whom she’d been too distracted to speak to. He must truly be desperate, to help her with some of her nastier tasks. She said, “One of the porters could probably have told you where to find the boy. Aren’t you due back at your battalion?” She peered more closely at his cap badge. He was from Crispin’s regiment. A momentary rush of cold fear took her breath, until she realized that if the captain had brought bad news, he would have said so immediately upon arrival.

“Sister, may I speak to you privately? Briefly,” he added. “Very briefly.”

He’d helped her when he didn’t have to do so. Most wouldn’t have bothered; they would have gone to Matron and demanded. Lucilla sighed. She ought to reinforce good behavior. “Outside,” she said. “Only for a moment. But I have to wash first. You’d better wash, too.”

Chill had descended with the night. The air outside smelled
clean, though, which improved her mood immeasurably. She pressed her hands in the small of her back and stretched, looking up at the stars. If not for the shelling, and her importunate visitor, it might have been a lovely night.

“I wasn’t able to find Hailey in any of the wards,” the captain said. “It’s important that I locate him.”

He’d washed his face as well as his hands. His cropped coppery hair looked as if he’d run wet fingers through it. Outside in the clean air, she was more aware of the scents that clung to him: dirt and sweat and gunpowder, all layered beneath the strong soap they used in the hospital. She noticed sharply angled eyebrows, freckles, a long nose, a lush mouth that looked as if it belonged on a woman but wasn’t the least bit feminine. His stance and facial expression made her imagine he didn’t have much trouble obtaining the loyalty of his men. Perhaps that loyalty went both ways.

“You’re sure he was sent here?” she asked.

“Absolutely. He was wounded this morning, in the arm, and my sergeant saw him on a truck heading here. Sister—I didn’t catch your name—”

“Daglish,” she said. “And you?”

He looked at her strangely for a moment, his nostrils flaring, then said, “Ashby, Noel Ashby.” He stuck out his hand. She shook it, and he didn’t let go as he continued to speak. “You’re Lieutenant Crispin Daglish’s sister, aren’t you? That must be why I chose you. Your brother’s fine, just a twisted ankle today.”

Lucilla reclaimed her hand. Captain Ashby had heavily callused palms, which she rarely encountered in an officer; they’d sent a warm shock up her arm.

He said, “I’m afraid Hailey might not have entered the
hospital. I was hoping someone could help me look for him. Discreetly.”

A thought occurred to her. She asked, “You think he’s deserted?” That offense earned a penalty of death. She could understand him wanting to prevent a young man’s death.

Ashby shook his head vigorously. “I think he’s hiding from the doctors. But he can’t do that, even if he’s not much wounded. He could die of gangrene.”

“I think you have a little time before you need fear that,” Lucilla noted. “Still, it’s not good to wander about bleeding.”

“Can you keep a secret, Miss Daglish?”

She blinked, trying to keep up with Ashby’s lightning shift of topic. “What sort of secret?”

“Hailey is, well…he has a reason to hide. Hailey’s not a man. He’s a young woman.”

Lucilla blinked again. “Don’t tell me no one noticed. Not least the recruiting office.”

“I noticed,” Ashby said. “He’s good, though. I only noticed because…because we’re in such close quarters. He doesn’t know I know.”

Lucilla stared. So far as she could tell he appeared perfectly serious. “And you did nothing? Is this some sort of joke?”

“He’s an excellent batman,” Ashby said.

She folded her arms across her chest. “This had better not be a joke, or I will cause you to be very, very sorry.”

“I wouldn’t joke about one of my men!”

Unless he could control the color rising in his cheeks, Ashby was genuinely outraged. Or embarrassed at being caught out in his game. “Prove it. How did you find out this batman of yours was a girl?” If there even was a batman. But then, if not, why spend this entire evening holding noxious, heavy basins?

Ashby straightened. Until that moment, she had not noticed he only topped her height by a few inches. “Please help me to find her.” His face glowed with sincerity and an almost feral attraction. She felt the urge to reach out and touch him, to see if he was real, and shook it off. She’d obviously been on her feet too long.

“I doubt she even exists,” she said. “Come now, Captain. Your joke is over. Go back to your battalion. I would think you would have a little respect for the medical staff. If you go now, I won’t report you.”

“I’m already in trouble if anyone finds Meyer in charge instead of me. Now, for the last time, will you help me find Hailey?”

“How did you know he was a girl?” she countered.

For a split second, she thought he might leap at her, and she tensed. Then he grinned, loose and friendly, as if he’d been presented with a plate of his favorite dinner. She wasn’t sure if his smile was forced or not, but she felt its impact as a slow caress on her skin. She’d been right about the magnetism. He said, “I knew Hailey was a girl because she smelled like a girl.”

“Hailey wears violet toilet water?”

Still smiling, he shook his head. “No, she smells like a girl. I have a very good sense of smell. For instance, I can tell that before the trucks came in with the wounded, you were having naughty fun in your bed. Alone, alas.”

Lucilla’s eyes widened before she realized she’d confirmed his supposition by her reaction. Denial seemed pointless. “I suppose Lord Kitchener forbids such goings-on?” she asked sweetly. “Go home, Captain.”

“You still don’t believe me!”

“This grows tiresome. Crispin wouldn’t put you up to this—who was it? If you’re trying to cause him trouble, I swear I will—”

“Wait.” He grabbed her arm, then let go immediately when she whirled on him. “I’ll prove it to you. About my nose, and all that. Just wait here, and I’ll go behind that shed, and—”

“You’re not going out of my sight,” she said. “Unless it is to leave.”

He shrugged. “Don’t complain, then.” He set his cap on the ground, loosened his tie and began unbuttoning his uniform tunic.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Taking off my damn clothes,” he said. “It’s chilly out here, too.” He tossed his tunic on the ground, then his tie, and started in on his shirt.

“You’re insane.”

He bounced on one foot while wrestling off his boot. “Hailey usually helps me with the boots.”

Lucilla sighed and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. “Oh, Lord, if you’re insane I’ll have to bring you in for hysteria, and we haven’t any proper facilities. I can’t just leave you out here.”

He didn’t seem to be in the grip of a compulsion, but she wasn’t an expert, either. She’d seen some strange reactions to combat already, everything from constant tremors to sleepwalking. This could be another manifestation. She’d need to find help in case he became violent. She wouldn’t win a physical fight. But if she left him, he might disappear, or harm himself. She stayed, keeping a close eye on him.

Ashby’s trousers hit the ground, and he blithely shucked out of his long shirt and drawers, turning away from her as he did
so. She didn’t note any signs of physical injury, and she would have easily seen any in that expanse of smooth, pale skin. His skin wavered, or was it her vision? Was she truly that tired? Another ripple passed over him, like a full-body spasm, only smooth and controlled. Then he hit the ground.

Lucilla dashed forward. He fended her off with one hand. “Wait!” he said.

She would need an orderly, or perhaps two, to help her deal with this. But she couldn’t leave him alone in mid fit to fetch anyone. “I’ll stay with you,” she said as calmly as she could. She’d need something ready to thrust beneath his teeth if necessary; she reached into her pocket and found a handkerchief, swiftly twisting and knotting it.

“All over—in a few seconds—”

He spoke coherently. His eyes did not lose awareness, and he focused on her face until she felt trapped by his golden gaze. This was the strangest fit she’d ever seen. She could only watch as his body twisted and shifted and arched and…shifted, muscles elongating beneath his pale skin, his skin darkening, coarsening…No. He’d sprouted fur, thick and rufous. His face was gone, and his hands. No, she had to be hallucinating, from fatigue perhaps. She blinked slowly, and saw a very large red dog. No, not a dog. Not with that thick brush of a tail, that ruff, those quizzical dark lines above amber-colored eyes. Except for color, he might have been an illustration in a Jack London novel. This was a wolf. A wolf. In France. In the middle of the hospital grounds. Staring at her, its head tipped to one side, ears pricked.

The wolf sprang to its feet and shoved its nose between her legs. She slapped it away. It backed up a step and grinned at her, tongue lolling. Slowly, she sank to her knees in the dirt.
Her knees protested. The wolf butted its head into her breasts and she saw the flicker of its tongue near a very inappropriate place. She grabbed his ruff and yanked him to arm’s length. “Ashby,” she said. The wolf licked her bare wrist.

“Bugger me,” she breathed.

The wolf grinned at her again. He sat in the heap of his clothing. She had watched the entire process. A man had turned into a wolf. Kauz had been telling the truth. She couldn’t wait to tell Pascal.

Her longing to see Pascal again momentarily swamped her wonder at the miracle she’d just seen. The wolf—Ashby—whined and licked her face. His ruff was soft beneath its coarse outer layer. She burrowed into it and held on for a moment. Ashby wouldn’t be able to speak. At least she didn’t think he would. “You can’t speak like this, can you?”

He produced another whine, different from the first. Wolf language, she supposed. “I didn’t think so,” she said wearily. “All right. Because you’ve astonished me beyond…” Beyond anything except for Pascal Fournier. “Beyond…oh, never mind.” A thought occurred to her. “Why couldn’t you track Hailey as a wolf? By scent, if you’re so proud of your sense of smell?”

She could have sworn the wolf lifted an eyebrow. At least, the dark line over his eye gave that effect.

“A bit conspicuous, yes. As we’re going to be, shortly. Perhaps you’d better change back, and I’ll help you look for him. Her.”

Once he’d reverted to human form and dressed, behind a shed this time, Lucilla led Ashby to the temporary buildings housing the X-ray unit, the photographic laboratory and storage for the medical-supply kits that were assembled for the ambulances. Vehicles constantly passed to and fro, both motor
driven and animal drawn, carrying ill and wounded. It would be easy to hide there amid the chaos, and a sharp eye could soon discern where bandages were stored, and could be stolen. Lucilla halted on the edges of the stretch of mud where sleepy orderlies and female drivers were washing down the motor ambulances, inside and out. She said to Ashby, “You might have a sniff round here.”

He lifted his head and sniffed, the barest flare of his nostrils. His eyes drifted closed. “Petrol,” he said in a disgusted tone. “Worse than the carbolic.” He scrubbed above his mustache with his finger and sniffed again, wandering an aimless path around the outskirts of the electric lights dangling from every available roof.

She supposed she could leave him to it; he was in uniform, and could no doubt come up with an acceptable reason for his presence. But she was curious to meet Hailey, to see with her own eyes a woman who lived as a man, in her own way as much a shape-changer as Ashby. Hailey, apparently, had no idea of how much she had in common with her superior officer. Lucilla didn’t plan to tell her. For all she knew, Ashby told everyone he met, but it wasn’t her secret to divulge.

Ashby circled a particular patch of air and then headed toward a storage shed, no longer scenting, at least not obviously. Lucilla trotted over, her knees protesting, the boots she wore beneath her skirt squelching in mud. Ashby gently pushed open the shed’s door and poked his head inside. “Bob?” he said.

Lucilla heard a scrabble of motion and hurried to catch up. She followed Ashby into the shed. A young man sat on a crate next to a soldier, a Gurkha; there’d been a group of them earlier in the evening, she remembered now, most of them
with barely a lick of English. The doctors had depended on one of the ambulatory Sikh patients to translate, and none of them had liked it much. This Gurkha wasn’t much bigger than Hailey, though much more muscular and cheerfully dangerous looking; he had a dirty bandage around his thigh. Lucilla almost reached for him, then held back as Ashby went to one knee in front of the two of them.